CHAPTER IX.
The settlement called "Turrifs" was not a village; it was only a locality, in which there were a good many houses within the radius of a few square miles.
When Alec Trenholme started off the third time to reproach the recreant driver of the ox-cart, he had no intention of again dealing with him directly. He bent his steps to the largest house in the neighbourhood, the house of the family called Turrifs; whose present head, being the second of his generation on the same farm, held a position of loosely acknowledged pre-eminence. Turrif was a Frenchman, who had had one Scotch forefather through whom his name had come. This, indeed, was the case with many of his neighbours.
Trenholme had had various negotiations with this Turrif and his neighbours, but he had only once been to the house he was now seeking and in the darkness, which had fallen completely during his three-mile walk, he was a little puzzled to find it quickly. Its wooden and weather-greyed walls glimmered but faintly in the night; it was only by following the line of log fences through the flat treeless fields that he found himself at last full in the feeble rays of the candle-light that peeped from its largest window. Trenholme knocked.
Turrif himself opened the door. He was a man of middle age, thick-set but thin, with that curious grey shade on a healthy skin that so often pertains to Frenchmen. For a moment his shrewd but mild countenance peered into the darkness; then, holding wide the door and making welcome motion with his hand, he bade Trenholme enter.
Trenholme could not speak French, but he knew that Turrif could understand enough English to comprehend his errand if he told it slowly and distinctly. Slowly and distinctly, therefore, he recounted all that had befallen him since Saul arrived at the station; but such telling of such a story could not be without some embarrassment, caused by the growing perception, on the part of both men, of its extraordinary nature.
"Eh—h!" said the Frenchman during the telling. It was a prolonged syllable, denoting meditative astonishment, and it brought another listener, for the wife came and stood by her husband, who interpreted the story to her, and shortly a girl of thirteen also drew near and stood listening to her father's interpretation. Trenholme began to wonder whether the elder listeners were placing any confidence in his word; but the doubt was probably in his mind only, for an honest man does not estimate the subtle force of his own honesty.
Turrif and his wife listened to all that was said, and looked at each other, and looked at him, and asked him a good many questions. They were neither of them hasty, but, as the woman's manner was the more vivacious, so her questions, when translated, showed a somewhat quicker wit. When all was said, like wise people, they pronounced no sentence, either upon Trenholme's actions or upon those of the creature that had inhabited the coffin; but they remarked that if the carter had committed no evil he would not have run away. They said that they had some knowledge of this man, whom they called "Monsieur Saul," and that he was a fellow of little worth. They agreed that Turrif should go with Trenholme, as requested, to bring the man to book.
On crossing the threshold of the house Trenholme had come at once into a large, long room, which composed the whole lower flat of the dwelling, as appeared from the windows on both sides and from the fact that the staircase went up from one end of it. It was a comfortable, well-warmed room, containing evidences of all the various industries of the family, from the harness that hung on the wall and the basket of carded wool by the spinning-wheel, to the bucket of cow's mash that stood warming by the stove at the foot of the baby's cradle. At the far end a large table, that held the candle, had a meal spread upon it, and also some open dog's-eared primers, at which small children were spelling audibly.
When the conference, which had taken place near the door, was over, the wife went back to her children and her lighted table, and Trenholme made as if to open the door, supposing that Turrif would walk away with him.
"Eh—non," said the older man, with a kindly smile. "Pas encore," and taking Trenholme by the arm, he pushed him gently towards the table. "I weel get out my 'orse," said he, in slow, broken English. "You have had enough walking to-day, and I have had enough work. À présent"—with a gesture toward the table.
He made Trenholme sit down at the table. There was a very large pan of thick sour milk on it, and a loaf of grey bread. Bits of this bread were set round the edge of the table, near the children, who munched at them.
Turrif gave Trenholme a bit of bread, cutting into the loaf as men only do in whose lives bread is not scarce. With a large spoon he took a quantity of the thick rich cream from the top of the milk and put a saucer of it before the visitor. Trenholme ate it with his bread, and found it not as sour as he expected, and on the whole very good. Turrif, eating bread as he went, carried the harness out of the house.
As there was no one left for him to talk to, Trenholme grew more observant. He remarked the sweetness and sense in the face of the house-mother as she bestowed their suppers upon the children. She was still comparatively young, but there was no beauty of youth about her, only the appearance of strength that is produced by toil and endurance before these two have worn the strength away. But, in spite of this look of strength, the face was not hard—no, nor sad; and there was a certain latent poetry, too, about the gesture and look with which she gave food to the little ones, as if the giving and receiving were a free thing, and not the mere necessity of life. Her manner of giving them supper was to push the large pan of curded milk close to the edge of the table, where the little ones were clustered, and let them, four of them at once, lap out of the side of it with their little spoons. At the same time she pushed the creasy yellow cover of cream to the farther side, with a watchful glance at Trenholme's saucer, evidently meaning that it was kept for him. She and the elder boy and girl waited to sup till the little ones had finished.
Trenholme endeavoured to say that he should not want any more cream, but she did not understand his words. He would have felt more concerned at the partiality shown him if the youngsters had looked more in need of cream; but they were, in truth, so round-faced and chubby, and so evidently more pleased to stare at him with their big, black eyes than grieved to lose the richest part of their milk, that he felt distress would have been thrown way. All four little ones wore round knitted caps, and their little heads, at uneven heights, their serious eyes rolling upon him, and their greedy little mouths supping in the milk the while, formed such an odd picture round the white disk of the milk-pan that Trenholme could not help laughing. The greedy little feeders, without dropping their spoons, looked to their mother to see whether they ought to be frightened or not at such conduct on the stranger's part, but seeing her smile, they concluded that they were safe.
Upon Trenholme's making further overtures of friendship, one or two of them began to smile: the smile was infectious, it spread to all four, and they began to laugh, and laughed in baby fashion quite immoderately. Their mother considered this a sign that they had had enough, and took their spoons from them. As they scattered from the table Trenholme perceived that, though their heads were covered, their feet were not. Their whole costume consisted of a short blue cotton nightgown and the little knitted cap.
When Turrif came in to say that the horse was ready, Trenholme made an effort to present his thanks in saying good-bye to the mistress of the house, but she did not seem to expect or take much notice of these manners. As he went out of the door he looked back to see her bending over the baby in the cradle, and he noticed for the first time that above the cradle there was a little shrine fastened to the wall. It was decked with a crucifix and paper flowers; above was a coloured picture of the Virgin.
Trenholme, whose nerves were perhaps more susceptible than usual by reason of the creature set at large by the opening of the coffin, wondered that Turrif should leave his wife and children alone so willingly, without any effort to bar the house and without objection on their part. He knew there was no other house within half a mile, and the darkness that lay on the flat land appeared to give room for a thousand dangers.
He expressed this surprise to Turrif, who replied placidly that the good saints took care of women and children—a reply which probably did not go to prove the man's piety so much as the habitual peace of the neighbourhood.
The vehicle to which Turrif had harnessed his pony was a small hay cart—that is to say, a cart consisting of a platform on two wheels, and a slight paling along each side intended to give some support to its contents. It was much more lightly made than Saul's ox-cart. The wheels went over the frozen ruts at a good pace, and the inmates were badly jolted. Trenholme would rather have walked, but he had already observed that the Canadian rustic never walked if he could possibly avoid it, and he supposed there must be some reason for this in the nature of the country. The jolting made talking disagreeable; indeed, when he attempted conversation he found his words reminded him forcibly of times when, in the nursery of his childhood, he had noticed the cries of baby companions gradually grow less by reason of the rapid vibrations of the nurse's knee. He kept silence therefore, and wondered whether Turrif or the pony was guiding, so carelessly did they go forth into the darkness, turning corners and avoiding ghostly fences with slovenly ease.
It soon appeared that Turrif knew no more than Trenholme where to find Saul; his only method of seeking was to inquire at each house. It was not, however, necessary to go into each house; the cart was only brought sufficiently near upon the road for a lusty shout to reach the family inside. The first house Trenholme hardly saw in the darkness; at one or two others he had a good view of the interior through an open door or window. From each door men and boys, sometimes women and children, sallied forth eagerly into the cold night to see what was wanted, and to each inquiry the phlegmatic Turrif repeated Trenholme's tale. Trenholme would have given a good deal to be able fully to understand what was said. There was much conversation. From each house one or two men joined them, and in one case, from a squalid-looking doorway, a loud-speaking and wilful girl came out and insisted on getting into the cart. She talked to the men and shrieked loudly when any object, such as a barn or a tree, loomed dimly at the side of the road. Two of the men brought a lantern and walked behind. When they came to the house whose roof was found to cover Saul, a party of eight entered to hear and pronounce upon his explanation. Certainly, if Trenholme had had the management of the business, he would not have proceeded in this fashion, but he had no choice.
The carter had been drinking whisky—not much as yet, but enough to give him a greater command of words than he ordinarily possessed. When he saw Trenholme among the band who were inquiring for him, he manifested distinct signs of terror, but not at his visitors; his ghastly glances were at door and window, and he drew nearer to the company for protection. It was plainly what they had to tell, not what they had to demand, that excited him to trembling; the assembled neighbourhood seemed to strike him in the light of a safeguard. When, however, he found the incomers were inclined to accuse him of trick or knavery, he spoke out bravely enough.
Old Cameron had died—they knew old Cameron?
Yes, the men assented to this knowledge.
And after he had been dead two days and one night, Mr. Bates—they knew
Mr. Bates?—
Assent again.
—Had put him in the coffin with his own hands and nailed down the lid.
He was quite dead—perfectly dead.
On hearing this the bold girl who had come with them shrieked again, and two of the younger men took her aside, and, holding her head over a bucket in the corner poured water on it, a process which silenced her.
"And," said Turrif, quietly speaking in French, "what then?"
"What then?" said Saul; "Then to-day I brought him in the cart."
"And buried him on the road, because he was heavy and useless, and let some friend of yours play with the box?" continued Turrif, with an insinuating smile.
Saul swore loudly that this was not the case, at which the men shrugged their shoulders and looked at Trenholme.
To him the scene and the circumstances were very curious. The house into which they had come was much smaller than Turrif's. The room was a dismal one, with no sign of woman or child about it. Its atmosphere was thick with the smoke of tobacco and the fumes of hot whisky, in which Saul and his host had been indulging. A soft, homemade candle, guttering on the table, shed a yellow smoky light upon the faces of the bearded men who stood around it. Saul, perhaps from an awkward feeling of trembling in his long legs, had resumed his seat, his little eyes more beady, his little round cheeks more ruddy, than ever, his whiskers now entirely disregarded in the importance of his self-vindication.
Too proud for asseveration, Trenholme had not much more to say. He stated briefly that he could not be responsible for the contents of a box when the contents had run away, nor for any harm that the runaway might do to the neighbourhood, adding that the man who had consigned the box to his care must now come and take it away.
He spoke with a fine edge of authority in his voice, as a man speaks who feels himself superior to his circumstances and companions. He did not look at the men as he spoke, for he was not yet sure whether they gave him the credence for which he would not sue, and he did not care to see if they derided him.
"I sink," said Turriff, speaking slowly in English now,—"I sink we cannot make that mee-rácle be done."
"What miracle?" asked Trenholme.
Those of the men who understood any English laughed.
"Se mirácle to make dis genteel-man, M. Saul, fetch se box."
Trenholme then saw that Saul's shudderings had come, upon him again at the mere suggestion.
"What am I to do, then?" he asked.
At this the men had a good deal of talk, and Turrif interpreted the decision.
"We sink it is for M. Bates to say what shall be done wit se box. We sink we take se liberté to say to sis man—'Stay here till some one go to-morrow and fetch M. Bates.'"
This struck Trenholme as just, and any objection he felt to spending the night under the same roof with the mysterious coffin did not seem worth remark.
As for Saul, he professed himself satisfied with the arrangement. He was only too glad to have some one brought who would share his responsibility and attest, in part at least, his tale.
"Well," said Trenholme, "I'll go then."
He felt for the key of the station in his pocket, and would have thanked the men and bid them "good evening," had they not, rather clamorously, deprecated his intention. Living, as they did, far from all organised justice, there was in them a rough sense of responsibility for each other which is not found in townsmen.
Trenholme shortly made out that they had decided that two of them should help him to guard the station that night, and were only disputing as to who should be allotted for the purpose.
"It isn't at all necessary," said Trenholme.
"We sink," said Turrif, with his deliberate smile, "it will be best; for if you have not been wandering in your mind, some one else's body has been wandering."
Trenholme went back to his station in the not unpleasant company of two sturdy farmers, one young and vivacious, the other old and slow. They found the place just as he had left it. The coffin was empty, save for the sweet-scented cushion of roughly covered pine tassels on which the body of the gaunt old Cameron had been laid to rest.
The three men sat by the stove in the other room. The smoke from their pipes dimmed the light of the lamp. The quiet sounds of their talk and movements never entirely took from them the consciousness of the large dark silence that lay without. No footfall broke it. When they heard the distant rush of the night train, they all three went out to see its great yellow eye come nearer and nearer.
Trenholme had one or two packages to put in the van. He and his companions exchanged greetings with the men of the train.
Just as he was handing in his last package, a gentlemanly voice accosted him.
"Station-master!" said a grey-haired, military-looking traveller,
"Station-master! Is there any way of getting milk here?"
A lady stood behind the gentleman. They were both on the platform at the front of a passenger car.
"It's for a child, you know," explained the gentleman.
Trenholme remembered his untouched tea, and confessed to the possession of a little milk.
"Oh, hasten, hasten!" cried the lady, "for the guard says the train will move on in a moment."
As Trenholme knew that the little French conductor thus grandly quoted did not know when the train would start, and as in his experience the train, whatever else it did, never hastened, he did not move with the sudden agility that was desired. Before he turned he heard a loud-whispered aside from the lady: "Tell him we'll pay him double—treble, for it; I have heard they are avaricious."
When Trenholme had started the train he jumped upon it with the milk. He found himself in a long car. The double seats on either side were filled with sleepy people. There was a passage down the middle, and the lamps above shone dimly through dirty glasses. Trenholme could not immediately see any one like the man who had spoken to him outside, but he did spy out a baby, and, jug in hand, he went and stood a moment near it.
The lady who held the baby sat upright, with her head leaning against the side of the car. She was dozing, and the baby was also asleep. It was a rosy, healthy child, about a year old. The lady's handsome face suggested she was about seven-and-twenty. Among all the shawl-wrapped heaps of restless humanity around them, this pair looked very lovely together. The dusty lamplight fell upon them. They seemed to Trenholme like a beautiful picture of mother and child, such as one sometimes comes upon among the evil surroundings of old frames and hideous prints.
Said Trenholme aloud: "I don't know who asked me for the milk."
The lady stirred and looked at him indifferently. She seemed very beautiful. Men see with different eyes in these matters, but in Trenholme's eyes this lady was faultless, and her face and air touched some answering mood of reverence in his heart. It rarely happens, however, that we can linger gazing at the faces which possess for us the most beauty. The train was getting up speed, and Trenholme, just then catching sight of the couple who had asked for the milk, had no choice but to pass down the car and pour it into the jar they held.
The gentleman put his hand in his pocket. "Oh no," said Trenholme, and went out. But the more lively lady reopened the door behind him, and threw a coin on the ground as he was descending.
By the sound it had made Trenholme found it, and saw by the light of the passing car that it was an English shilling. When the train was gone he stood a minute where it had carried him, some hundred feet from the station, and watched it going on into the darkness.
Afterwards, when his companions had composed themselves to sleep, and he lay sleepless, listening to all that could be heard in the silent night, curiously enough it was not upon the exciting circumstances of the early evening that he mused chiefly, but upon the people he had seen in the night train.
A seemingly little thing has sometimes the power to change those currents that set one way and another within a man, making him satisfied or dissatisfied with this or that. By chance, as it seems, a song is sung, a touch is given, a sight revealed, and man, like a harp hung to the winds, is played upon, and the music is not that which he devises. So it was that Trenholme's encounter in the dusty car with the beautiful woman who had looked upon him so indifferently had struck a chord which was like a plaintive sigh for some better purpose in life than he was beating out of this rough existence. It was not a desire for greater pleasure that her beauty had aroused in him, but a desire for nobler action—such was the power of her face.
The night passed on; no footfall broke the silence. The passing train was the only episode of his vigil.
In the morning when Trenholme looked out, the land was covered deep in snow.